Out of Phase
by Meg F
Summary: Fred tries another way to solidify Spike -- and it goes horribly wrong.


Title: Out of Phase (Angel: The Series, Fred/Spike)

Summary: Set in the early episodes of season 5, Fred tries another method to solidify Spike. Written for the fabulous Jeanny, for Yuletide. 

Disclaimer: Not mine, don't hurt me.

Thanks: to Jeanny, of course, and to Vic, Melissa, Pete, Dot, and Jen, as always.

Fred yawned as she stared blearily at the ancient book in front of her.

"You could get some sleep, you know, love," Spike suggested.

"Ahhh!" Fred yelped, jolting forward. The lab stool went out from under her and she fell backwards onto her butt. "Don't," she said, clambering to her feet, "don't sneak up on me." She rubbed her behind, wincing. "Please."

"Bit difficult not to, love," Spike said, "on account of how I'm a GHOST and all!" He slammed a fist down on the bench. It went straight through. He rolled his eyes in frustration. "Look, I know you're trying your best. And I want to be a real boy again, please, Blue Fairy. But you can't do me any good if you don't get some bloody rest. Everyone else is asleep. Even Mr Poofypants Greasyhead Hairgel." The leer came back onto his face. "Come to bed."

Fred carefully closed the covers of her book, ignoring what sounded like screams of pain coming from the pages. She gave him a Look. "You're almost attractive when you're not doing the whole Mr Tough Biker, I'm Even Scarier Than Ronald McDuck thing." 

"McDonald," Spike corrected. He moved to the other side of the bench and planted his hands on the surface. "Unless you're talking about Scrooge McDuck's lesser-known younger brother, the riverboat gambler. Get into the twentieth century already." 

Fred tried to stay pissed off, but it was difficult when Spike's hands were an inch above the benchtop. She hid a grin. "Get your mind out of your charmingly smelly biker pants, then."

"Deal," Spike scowled.

Fred spoke from the door. "You couldn't touch me anyway."

"Thank you for reminding me," Spike groaned, walking through the bench.

The book fizzed. 

Then it jumped.

Then it exploded.

She drifted aimlessly, floating in and out of sleep. At one point she looked down to find she was bobbing along just above the trees near the Boulevard. With an effort, she made herself float down to the street. This is fun, she thought vaguely. I've never been able to dream lucidly before.

She passed through the people, who didn't notice her at all, in spite of every horror movie cliche. No shudders, no cold chills, though she did get an unexpected insight into a hairy man's heart condition when she turned to watch a cute car and the man strode through her.

It seemed to go on for days, then finally she tired of it. Time to wake up now, she told herself. She stood firmly on the pavement -- at least, as firmly as she could -- and visualised waking up in her bed, or possibly in the lab, face down in a book again, stuck to her cheek with drool.

She visualised and visualised. And then she began to realise something might be wrong.

Jeff McKeown sipped his coffee as he studied the morning headlines. "Blah, blah, blah," he said to himself. "Same old nonsense."

He looked up as a young woman arrived at the counter. She had long, tousled, dark hair. No shoes. She wore what looked like pink Barbie pyjamas. . . and a distressed expression. She waved at him.

"What would you like?" he said patiently.

She staggered back. "You mean - you can see me?" A wondering smile broke across her face. Her eyes lit up.

"Yes," he said, humouring her. He got all sorts. Outgoing and incoming patients. Distressed, sleep-deprived family and friends. It was pointless to fight their realities, so he just went along with what they wanted. 

The woman patted her face and arms, then grabbed Jeff by the hand and yanked him across the counter. She held his wrist tightly as she poked at each of his fingers with her other, sweaty hand. "Ow," he said. "Ow. Ow."

Eventually, she let go of his hand and took a step back, eyes wide and staring. "I'm so sorry! Just - something really weird happened to me, and no one could see me. Or touch me. It seemed to last forever."

"Do you have anyone here to look after you? Any friends or family, someone I can call?"

She clapped a hand to her mouth. "Oh no. Spike. Spike was with me. This must've happened to him, too!" 

Jeff sat back on his chair and rubbed his chin, lost in thought. "Spike. . . and you're Fred?"

"Yes! Where is he?"

Jeff grinned, happy to be able to help her finally. "I'm Jeff. We knew you were coming around now. Wesley Wyndham-Pryce told us, but he said you'd appear in the cafeteria." His shoulders slumped. "Spike showed up last night. But the director said he wasn't in good shape." Jeff took a deep breath, steeling himself. "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this. He wasn't breathing, and they couldn't find a heartbeat." 

Surprisingly, Fred grinned. "That's fine. Which way do I go?"

Jeff pointed. "Up the stairs and along to your left. The director's office is down the end - but you'll need to get past Harry, her assistant, first. Tell Harry who you are." 

"Thank you!" she turned and sped out of his cafeteria.

Jeff, who'd seen it all at one point or another, shrugged and picked up his newspaper again. "'Carys Douglas wins Oscar'," he read. "Huh. Like we couldn't see that coming when her mommy bought the Academy."

"Spike," Fred hissed in his ear. "Spike!"

"That won't work, I'm afraid" said Doctor Dowling, the director. Dowling was in her early 40s, short brown hair, pretty, with a no-nonsense attitude. "We tried everything. I'm sorry, but he's gone." Dowling patted her on the shoulder. "You're lucky you're here, after what Mr Wyndham-Pryce told us. Some sort of quantum fluctuation in the space-time continuum, throwing you out of phase with space but only temporarily. He had some lovely graphs with the estimates of when you'd appear."

Dowling took her by the elbow and pointed her at the wall by the door. "You see?"

There were two weathered printouts, with Wesley's elegant handwriting annotating each one. The printouts looked old. Very. . . old.

"How long were we out of phase?" Fred demanded. She shuddered at her own garlic breath from the spaghetti she'd had for dinner, who knew how long ago. A crazed thought ran through her mind; if it had been decades since she'd brushed her teeth, no wonder her mouth felt like something had liquefied in it.

"Around twenty years," Dowling said promptly. "Didn't you know?"

"No," Fred said. Her legs gave out under her and she sat down on Spike's bed, gazing blankly at the wall opposite. It was a fair-sized room, and she'd seen evidence of horrible overcrowding on her short trip through the hospital -- files stuffed into shelves, three people sharing a workspace that should've held only one -- yet this room had been kept clear. There were two beds, two plastic chairs, and two stands with IVs.

"Of course you didn't," Dowling said, looking upwards. She shook her head wearily. "I'm sorry. I should've thought. We've all known for so long that you would arrive around now. Mr Wyndham-Pryce used to visit every year around now, just in case. He brought Angel, and Mr Gunn one time, but not since then." In hushed tones, Dowling said, "I believe there was an accident. I hate to have to tell you this. I believe neither one is still alive."

"That's okay," Fred said. Her head hurt. She had to do something. One thing at a time. Wake up Spike. Then find Wesley somehow, try to work out what had happened. Maybe they could go back? But how?

Spike first.

She set her jaw and stood. "He has a very special medical condition, Doctor. But I know how to wake him up."

After so many years, it would have to be sensitive. No point in being gentle.

She grabbed him between the legs and yelled in his ear, "Spike! Time for action, big boy!"

Spike shot upright, clawed a hand around the back of her neck, and clamped his lips to hers. After a long kiss, his eyes opened. "Oh," he said disappointedly. "It's you."

"Yes, Spike," said Fred, "and you can take your hands off me, now." His breath was no better than hers. She gagged a little, tried to hide it, but had to cough. 

"Where the hell are we?" Spike asked, sliding smoothly off the bed. "Why can I touch again?"

She told him.

"Do we have to go back?" Spike whined as they strode through the corridors. His duster flapped behind him dramatically. Fred wondered how much practising it had taken him to get the effect just right, when he'd first obtained it. 

"Yes," she said. "We have to find Wesley. If you can give us his last known address, Doctor, we'll be on our way. Thank you for your help."

Dowling nodded, nearly as out of breath as Fred herself.

They passed another ward. The patients were quiet, though practically on top of each other.

The next ward wasn't so peaceful. A man's voice rose in a roar. "I will NOT sit! I will not tolerate being treated like this any more!" 

Fred glanced at Spike. Spike sighed, but he broke into a run alongside her.

"You have to take your medicine," an orderly coaxed the thin man in the corner bed. "You won't get better if you don't take your medicine. I can have you restrained if you won't let me do it. . ."

But this was a bad offer. The man leaped over the top of the orderly, grabbed a knife from a serving tray and waved it around wildly. The other patients crowded back against the walls.

"Can you take the knife from him?" Fred asked Spike in a whisper.

Spike shrugged. "It's a plastic knife, woman! You could bloody do it yourself!" 

"Please."

"Oh, all right." 

Spike sprinted into the middle of the room, ducked a swipe from the knife, and punched the man on the jaw. The man collapsed like a bag of sand. "Lacking a certain style, but it'll do," Spike said.

"Well done!" said Dowling, rushing over to Spike. She shook his hand enthusiastically. "Now let's get out of here."

Fred sniffed the air. There was something. . . some scent, some memory. . .

She followed it to the corner near the window. A scruffy, unshaven man was manacled to his bedframe. He turned to her as she pushed the curtain aside. 

"Fred?"

"Wesley?"

Fred turned to see Dowling smiling dangerously. She held a gun.

"Don't think you're getting out of here," Dowling warned Spike and Fred as she left the room.

Spike groaned. "Great. I get my body back, and now I'm all bruised from those idiots, and I'm tied to something, and no one wants to play."

"Don't look at me," Fred snapped. She wiggled around, maneouvring her manacle until she could reach Wesley. "Wes? What the hell happened?" She touched him lightly on the forearm.

He jolted, staring at her, then looking away. "No, it's not real, it can't be real," he murmured, voice cracking. He was close to hysteria. Probably not the first time. 

"Wesley, it's me, Fred," she said, keeping her voice low and gentle. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"Quiet over there!" yelled another patient. "You want we should beat you up again?"

"Not really, thanks, come back later!" Spike called back.

Wes looked through her again. His eyes were hollow pits. Deep lines were engraved on either side of his mouth, and his hair was peppered with grey. He stunk of sweat and vomit. "The heroes," he said softly. "They took all the heroes. Took them away, fed them drugs, put them away, where they couldn't help, couldn't find the bad stuff, couldn't stop it couldn't stop it couldn't stop it --"

Feeling the blood drain from her face, she broke in. "Wes. It's all right now. It'll be all right. I'm here." She tried not to think about the enormity of her statement. A few short years ago half-crazed Fred had been impossibly rescued. Who was she to think that she could help Wesley? 

"We should get this out of him," Spike said, nodding to Wesley's IV. A pale pink fluid seeped slowly through it. Fred blanched -- it seemed so revolting -- but then she clenched her teeth and yanked it out of Wesley's wrist before he knew what was happening.

"Put pressure here," she directed him. "It'll stop bleeding eventually."

Dowling came back into the room, with the orderly. Wesley quickly put the IV needle over his wrist, covering it with his other hand. He met her eyes, but had to look away.

"Had enough time to discover my evil plan yet?" Dowling sneered. "I need the vampire. The only one who can Shanshu, now that Angel's gone."

"Where are the other vampires?" Fred asked.

"All dead," Dowling said happily. "There was one of those apocalypses a few years ago. Your friend Spike here wasn't around to help Angel. And, oh dear, Angel died! Again. But this time, for good. I put his body parts in boxes and scattered them all over the world."

"That's original," Spike muttered.

"Balance must be maintained," Dowling said. "Order. The good have reigned for far too long. I did my best as a doctor, treating the unusual, the scarred, the not so human. But when my Ulfgor died, I had to begin to realise that the night was winning." She smiled, a big, wide smile that showed too many teeth. "I had to embrace it." 

"Uh-huh," Spike said.

Dowling snapped out of it. "Is that enough of an evil rationale for you? I hunted down the Slayers. I took your lawyer, Gunn. He's around here someplace. We got into Wolfram and Hart, and oh boy did we have fun there. Lots of people happy to help us. Especially when they saw the alternative."

"So, your aim is?" Fred asked. Spike was doing something behind her and she wanted to keep Dowling talking.

"World domination, of course. What else? But I need the blood of a vampire. The blood of the Redeemed One. The final one. The one who ain't the hero. Funnily enough, tonight is the perfect time for the ritual."

Fred sighed. Again with the rituals.

"You two can go first, if you like." 

Dowling gestured. Wesley was unlocked first, and led on stumbling legs to the centre of the room. He glanced back at Fred once, who was delighted to see his eyes were clearing. He seemed to actually see her. He waited quietly while the orderly unlocked Fred. The orderly held Fred more tightly, with an arm across the throat.

"Find the real knife now, please, Sean." 

The orderly, Sean, chuckled deep in his chest. He reached into a pocket and pulled out the ugliest, largest knife Fred had ever seen. And she'd been to a lot of unholy rituals. He poked her in the side of the neck. Fred felt a drop of blood well out, which he finessed onto the point of the knife. "Hold her, Leila," Sean said, shoving her hard towards a female orderly. The female orderly stuck out her tongue at him, but grabbed Fred in a surprisingly strong grip anyway.

Sean leaned down to the floor and held out his knife. The drop of blood fell slowly onto the floor, which shimmered, shuddered, and sighed like a large animal. 

"That can't be good," Fred said.

"It has the taste for you, now. Your turn, Wesley."

They went through the same thing with Wesley.

The floor shook. The hospital green walls began to melt, and the melted parts formed demons, and the horrible bland square tiles on the floor shot into the air and formed more demons, and each one hissed, "Fred. Wesley."

Dowling stood in the centre, untouched. "Run."

Fred shrieked. Wesley stood unmoving. She swooped on him, threw an arm around his shoulders, and yanked him out the door. The demons followed, screeching and laughing, flying above, then behind, then in front of them, and still they ran.

One flew too close and tasted Fred's shoulder. She stumbled, feeling the hot blood drip down her arm, but managed to shake off the demon. It tumbled away behind her but was replaced by others.

. . . and then Spike appeared.

He yelled, snap-kicked the demon beside Fred squarely into the wall, hurled one above her into the others behind, got in between Fred and Wesley, and practically picked them up. They flew down the corridor, down the stairs, and into the cafeteria.

"You again," Jeff said in a friendly voice. "These your friends? You want something to eat?"

"No, just somewhere to hide for a moment," Wesley said in a firm voice.

Fred looked up at him and grinned. "You have a plan?"

"No, I just want to hide," he said in a small voice.

"Through here," Jeff said, unquestioning. He pointed them at the door into his office. "Do you need me to keep someone busy?"

"Yes, please," Spike said fervently.

"But not if it means you get hurt!" Fred added as they hurtled into the tiny office and slammed the door shut. They all sank below the level of the window in the door, squeezing onto the floorspace together.

"I do have a plan," Wesley admitted. "But it may be foolhardy in the extreme."

"Those are the best ones, lemme have it," Spike said.

"You two have to go back."

Fred yelped, "Out there?"

"Not out there, Winifred," Wesley said. "You have to go back to Wolfram and Hart. To help Angel and the others, or we end up with this." He indicated the hospital around them, then shook his head fondly as he gazed on her. "I'd hoped for so long to see you again. . . I only regret that it must be cut short."

"What do we do?" Spike asked.

Wesley took them through it.

Dowling tore into the cafeteria. "He wasn't supposed to be a hero!" she snarled at Jeff.

"Would you like a drink?" Jeff asked pleasantly.

Leila came forward. "No, she wouldn't!"

Leila gestured to the demons, and pointed at Jeff. Jeff backed away, pale. "But they haven't tasted me," he said weakly.

"Doesn't matter," Sean said. "They have a taste for anyone we want, now!"

Jeff looked at the office door, for only a second, but it was long enough. "Out of my way," Dowling growled. "Take care of him," she said to the orderlies over her shoulder.

Dowling stalked forward and opened the office door.

Wesley, Spike and Fred looked up at her. Their bloody forearms were bared and held together; Wesley's to Spike's, Spike's to Fred's, Fred's to Wesley's.

"I'm sorry about your boyfriend," Fred said genuinely.

"Ulfgor?" Dowling was startled. She blinked rapidly. "Ulfgor was my cat, idiot child!" Dowling stepped forward, but it was too late.

A swirling vortex opened up and swallowed Fred whole.

"Where've you been?" Angel asked as Fred walked out of the laboratory. "It's been two days!"

Fred stepped forward, threw her arms around him, and buried her face in his shirt. She wasn't too surprised to feel Spike throw his arms around both of them from behind.

"We missed you," Spike told him as they all came up for air.

"I'll give you the details once I have a glass of water. And a huge chocolate bar. And some soup. And some Chinese," Fred said, running up the stairs towards the kitchen. "And some cake. And a sandwich." 

"I got my body back!" Spike called as he ran after her.


End file.
